Clare: From Angel to Demon
by Aurora Shadowglen
Summary: From an innocent village girl to the captive of a Yoma, this is the tale of Clare before she meet Teresa and became a Claymore. A/N Rating is precautionary due to the nature of this story and is subject to change at any time. Also, I will treat this as a semi-sequel to my Ranking Zero story, therefore parts of it are non-canon.
1. Prologue

**And here I thought I was done with Clare... Ah, well.**

**Hello everyone! After my little poems with Clare, a review by Ann E. Casap inspired me to write more on Clare's backstory (Yes, Ann, you inspired me again). Anyway, right now this story will continue after I finish my current Zelda fanfiction.**

**So, without further ado, I present my prologue and first chapter of the story entitled, _Clare: From Angel to Demon_**

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**Prologue**

Fate and Destiny are such poor and cruel decision makers.

I will deny and swear upon Teresa's grave that I never once thought during my innocent childhood years that I would become a demon. Never once did I ever strive to do harm to anyone, even the ones that tried to bully me once in a blue moon. I was as everyone in my village used to think of me, an innocent girl rightly named after one of the twin goddesses of purity. The angel, Clare.

Now I have become defiled. I have abandoned my 'glorious' wings and taken on the form of a half-demon. I am an object of terror and fear. A fallen angel. A half-Yoma. A Claymore.

Such a cruel fate for a young girl who strove to be innocent and pure, yet there was a reason I ultimately followed this path. I will avenge the death of my 'twin sister' Teresa, an angel even though all thought she was a monster. I will kill the true demon, that one who cowardly killed the only family I ever had after my true family died. I will kill Priscilla, the one-horned demon.

But as I sit here now, gazing into the campfire built by my comrades to keep away the lingering chill of the frozen north, my mind drifts back to times when I was not on the path of vengeance. Back to when I was Clare, the daughter of one of the village blacksmiths. For three years this tale has festered within my soul and I feel soon that I may not have the chance to tell it once I return to the world away from this small campfire.

So friend, come into the light of the campfire, and I will share my tale. I do this not only to free my soul of any lingering memories of my past, but to prepare myself for my eventual victory over the demon, both outside and in me.

This is the tale of a girl, named after an angel, who became a demon, thirsting for revenge.


	2. The Beast Strikes

**Chapter 1 - The Beast Strikes**

"Clare!"

I turned my head away from the conversation I was having with my friends from the village to meet the eyes of my mother, known to everyone else in the village as their healer, Adeline. A smile graced my mother's warm face as our green eyes connected.

Making my excuses to my friends, I ran up to my mother. "Yes?"

"Come and help me with the basket, dear. We need to finish up shopping in the market and then get dinner started before your father and brother return from work. We can't be outside after dark, not with Yoma on the prowl."

I nodded and grabbed the smaller of the two wicker baskets from my mother's hands. My father, Horace, was one of the village's two blacksmiths, the other being my father's former master in the craft. My brother, Connor, worked with my father, though he was an apprentice blacksmith now. A fair share of the village's revenue came from the work done by the blacksmiths and the people who carried the completed works to their recipients.

I was proud of my father and brother, who seemingly did magic to the hard metal to make it into something completely different from its former brick-like appearance. My mother seemed to do a different kind of magic that healed people from sickness, injuries, and all manner of ailments. Yes, I was proud and happy living with my family in our little mountain village, not too far from a local mine. I was the youngest in my family, but I never felt alone or neglected. I felt cherished.

Everyone greeted my mother and me as we walked through the village's small marketplace. Zander and his large family waved at us from the bakery stall. Selphie, a widowed farmer's wife, smiled at us as we purchased vegetables from her stall, which her son manned. Jason, the butcher, tried to tempt my mother into buying some of the new pork loins he'd just cut that morning. And lastly, Louise paused her daily mantle sweeping for the village's solitary inn to merrily inquire about our health and her considerations of the weather.

I fell into the patterns of helping my mother with dinner as soon as we returned to our small house near the outskirts of the village. Our meal was a simple fare, a vegetable stew with some slices of warmed day-old bread. We could probably afford a more lavish meal but my mother and father were very prudent and, as long as our bellies were full, how the food tasted didn't matter to me or my brother.

The familiar screech of the door opening announced my father's return. I placed the dishes I had been gathering on the well-worn table and raced into his arms, embracing him, even though I barely came up to his waist. He laughed and hugged me in his strong yet gentle arms before holding me at arm's length and kneeling down in front of me. "Ah and how's my little goddess? And where's your twin?"

Mother and I giggled. It had been a running joke in my family to call me little goddess, since my name originated from one of the two twin goddesses of love and purity, Teresa and Clare.

Feeling a bit bolder than usual, I responded, "I am just fine, Papa. As for my twin, she's out and about causing mischief as usual. I'm the well-behaved one today."

My father burst out laughing and gave me a pat with one of his huge hands. In all the legends, at least one if not both of the twin goddesses always stirred up some sort of mischief, whether during one of their attempts at matchmaking or unintentionally causing a war because one of their followers fell in love with the wrong person.

After our merriment, Mother asked, "Is Connor working late again?"

Father nodded. "Said he wanted to finish up that order of horseshoes tonight so he could start learning sword craft tomorrow."

My mother frowned at this. Though she approved of my father's work, she did not like the notion of creating weapons. There were too many bandits and wars already without more weapons being made to encourage them, according to her. All I knew of war and bandits was that both were bad and were subjects that made people either angry or sad. Needless to say, I avoided those topics like the plague.

After father and mother whispered tender words in greeting to each other, they hugged for a moment before both helped in getting supper onto the table. By the time we were halfway done with the meal, Connor stumbled into the house, looking completely exhausted. Mother rose to lead him to the table, while I grabbed his bowl and filled it with stew before setting it on the table in front of him.

Father asked if the shipment was completed, only getting a nod from my brother. That response made me look at him strangely. Even when Connor was tired, he always spoke rather than nod or shake his head. He even told me one time that nodding or shaking your head was something mute people should do to communicate, not those who could speak. 'If we can speak words, we should!' was one of his frequent statements.

Even stranger than that, was the fact that Connor didn't even touch his food. My mother, now concerned, asked him, "What's wrong, Connor? Are you not hungry?"

My brother shook his head.

"Then why aren't you eating the food your mother and sister prepared?" was the gruff question from my father, who was growing wary and angry.

The words my brother spoke, in a voice filled with malice and hunger, will haunt me all of my days. "Because 'father', I don't want soup. I want… flesh."

I can't remember the details of the attack. All I can recall is the sight of blood, my parent's blood, covering the floor of my former home, as if jars of the life-giving liquid had been smashed upon it. I remember that and one other sight.

The golden, lust-filled eyes of the nightmarish monster, which had possessed my brother. A monster we humans called… Yoma.

When I finally was coherent, I was lying on the floor, the yoma's body on top of me, covering my split overdress with dark, purple blood. Once I wriggled out from underneath the heavy, cold body, I looked around, hoping that mother and father were nearby. They were nearby, but they would not be coming to comfort me. In fact, they would never be able to comfort, laugh, or play with me again. They were lying face down on the darkening floor, both unmoving and unresponsive when I tried to shake them awake.

After I realized they were dead, I slowly backed away in terror until I walked into the far wall. It had to be a nightmare. I would wake up soon and leap into my father or mother's embrace as they whispered that it had only been a dream. If this was a nightmare, I never woke up and neither did my parents move.

Shivering and shaking as if the ground were unstable, I slid down the wall and brought my knees to my chest. Tears were forming, unbidden, in my eyes as tried to warm my cold body. I don't know how long I sat there, but there were loud whispers outside the house. Finally, someone worked up the courage to enter the house, but I never noticed who. I was too busy staring at my dead parents and former brother, waiting for the nightmare to end.

That was when the voices started to whisper around me.

"What are we to do with poor Clare?"

"Will anyone take her in, you think?"

"Nay, no one will take her in. Remember what they say."

"Aye, those closest to the Yoma are bound to be Yoma themselves."

"But we can't just throw the child out into to wilderness! What if she isn't a Yoma? We'll be sending her to her death!"

"Far better to let her die in the wilderness than turn into a savage beast and kill us all."

"Yes, the sacrifice of one to save many."

One voice pierced through the whispers causing me to turn my aching head to see who had spoken. "You all should be ashamed of yourselves! Clare would not harm a fly even if her life depended on it! Can't you see the girl has gone through enough without you folk working yourselves up into a frenzy thinking she's a beast? For shame, and I though you all were more compassionate than that."

It was the widow, Selphie, who walked up to me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I stared at the hand, wondering why it was there, before my eyes started to close and darkness overtook my sight.

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**And there you have it everyone! The first two segments of my tale!**

**Now, as outlined before, I will continue this story after I complete my Zelda fanfiction. Thanks in advance to all those who review and give me constructive criticism!**

**~Aurora Shadowglen~**


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